I’m slightly cheered by Dan’s theory, and the thought that all my days have not been wasted, but that’s not the reason for the small but unfamiliar glow rising in my chest, a happy fragment of some memory from long ago. I can almost, but not quite, feel the presence of my mother in the room. I try to pin it down, to make it last a little longer, but it’s like waking up from a dream that slips away when daylight comes. Still, I’m glad to have been warmed by it, even a little.
I’m a complete mess now; my nose is running and my head is swimming, and I realize I should probably pull myself together and survey the damage in the bathroom mirror. I attempt to stagger to my feet, but my dress is so tight that the lumpy sofa sucks me back in, and I sort of fall back onto it in defeat. This starts a new wave of tears.
“Do you need a Kleenex, Franny?” Dan asks softly, and I nod and hiccup as he gets up from the table. He’s back a moment later with a wadded-up ball of toilet paper that looks big enough to sop up an entire ocean, and a cold beer from the fridge. He stands above me patiently while I dry my eyes and blow my nose and take a sip of beer.
“Can I show you something?” he says, after my breathing has calmed down a little.
“Okay,” I say, and Dan takes my hand and helps steady me as I get up from the sofa.
He doesn’t drop my hand as he leads me across the living room floor and into our tiny kitchen, and he hesitates only briefly before continuing through the door that leads from the kitchen to his bedroom. I have to suppress a flash of annoyance as it occurs to me that Dan is trying to seduce me again, and at the worst possible time, when nothing at all makes sense and I’m upset and vulnerable. I pull my hand away.
“Look, Dan, this really isn’t the—”
“Franny, it’s all right, I’m not—just look.”
“I can’t—I want to go back to—”
“Just look,” Dan insists gently, pointing toward the window above his bed, which looks directly into our neighbor Frank’s apartment—Frank the mysterious loner, whose regimented days we sometimes use to tell the time. At first, everything looks like it always does. It must be around nine o’clock, and as usual there’s the familiar sight of the back of Frank’s head silhouetted by the glow of the television light.
“I don’t under—oh!” I inhale sharply as I see her, a woman in Frank’s apartment. She walks into the room holding two glasses of wine, which she must have poured in the kitchen we can’t see but know exists. She hands a glass to Frank and sits down next to him on the couch, so now the backs of two heads glow from the light of the television, a sight I haven’t seen once in three years.
Dan and I watch them quietly for a moment, even though they do nothing more exciting than sip from their glasses and watch TV.
“See, Franny?” Dan says with a little catch in his throat. “There’s always hope.”
30
Although it’s been almost six months, it feels as though time has stood still in the office of Barney Sparks. He’s wearing the same blue sport coat he had on the first time, and when he pounds his chest to help a cough escape, dust explodes like tiny fireworks in the rays of the late afternoon sun, just as it did on the day we met.
I’ve been seated for about twenty minutes now in the familiar giant chair that makes it impossible to sit up straight, and over a cup of the extremely weak coffee he poured for us both (“I’m not supposed to be having this—Mrs. Sparks would have my hide.”), I’ve managed to explain much of what’s happened since the day I first climbed the creaky stairs to his office. It all tumbled out in a rush: how I booked my first audition and signed with Joe Melville, how I got fired from the club and had to go back to catering, the movie I turned down and being dropped by the agency. I even told him about going to my first premiere and how exciting I thought it would be, but how disappointing it ultimately was—although I didn’t tell him all the reasons why that night was so painful.
“Horrible way to see a movie. All that glad-handing. I avoid them like the PLAGUE,” he agreed, shakily raising his chipped white mug to his lips for another sip.
And with that, we arrived at the day I called him—just last week—when I stammered and struggled to get out even the most basic information—my name and why I was calling.
“Franny BANKS. My favorite KLUTZ,” he’d bellowed cheerfully into the phone that day, and then asked if I’d like to come by on Friday around four.
So here we are, Friday a little after four, and I’m comfortably sunken into the ancient chair, wondering, but afraid to ask yet, if Barney Sparks still might want to be my agent.
“My episode of Kevin and Kathy is supposed to air next week,” I tell him, trying not to sound too naively optimistic. “Could that be a—do you think that could mean anything, or uh, do anything for me?”
Barney tips precariously back in his chair, the hinges creaking in protest. “GOOD NEWS,” he yells to the ceiling. “It’s the first episode back on the air and there’ll be lots of press. BAD NEWS—the show is in its ninth year and has lost some juice—but HEY, you never know.”
“It’s just that, well, I set a sort of deadline for myself, and it just passed actually, and I swore I wouldn’t be one of those people who stays too long, and I’m wondering if I’m fooling myself into thinking that I’m—”
I stop, unable to even say the words.
“GOOD enough?” Barney barks the words in a matter-of-fact tone, as if I’ve just said the most obvious thing in the world.
“Well, yes.”
“My dear,” he sighs, leaning forward on his desk and clasping his hands. “My father, the great theater director Irving Sparks, often asked his actors: ‘How do you get to Carnegie Hall?’ ”
I stare at him, not sure if he’s joking. “Um. Hold on. Are you telling me that ‘practice, practice, practice’ was your father’s saying?”
“Well, he never got the CREDIT for it, but do you think Jack Benny came up with that line himself? HA! A talented comic, yes, but a wordsmith like my father he was NOT.”
“Wow.”
“YES. And it seems to me perhaps you’ve not yet had enough practice. That comes with time. And AGE.”
Barney seems positively cheerful about my age, as if approaching twenty-seven years old isn’t a time to panic. He’s talking to me as though I’m young. Doesn’t he know Diane Keaton was twenty-four when she understudied the lead in Hair on Broadway, and Meryl Streep won an Academy Award before she turned thirty? But for some reason, he doesn’t seem to think I’m behind at all.
“But even with all the auditions I’ve had, and being in acting class—I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s something I’m doing wrong, or something I’m not doing right—either way, there’s a trick I haven’t learned, a secret that other people know but I don’t. It’s like these nightmares I get sometimes: I’m onstage and I don’t know what play I’m doing, or there’s a song or a speech I’m supposed to perform but I open my mouth and nothing comes out. And I’m not sure if I have that feeling because I don’t have enough experience, or practice, like you said, or if it’s that I don’t know the secret … the secret language …”
I’ve lost the point I was trying to make and I’m out of breath, as if I’ve just climbed Barney’s four flights of stairs a second time.
I look up from the threadbare spot on the worn Persian carpet where my gaze has been fixed, to see that Barney’s hands are folded neatly on his desk, and his blue eyes are bright and focused, as if he’s very interested in what I’ve been saying and has all the time in the world in case I’d like to continue. He raises his eyebrows and smiles encouragingly, but I realize that, for once, I’ve actually said everything I can think of—at least for now.
“My dear,” he says, taking a shallow breath that sounds like two pieces of sandpaper being rubbed together. “It’s sad but TRUE. Even IF you’re talented, this business is NOT for everyone. Think of dear Marilyn. She was just TOO sensitive.”
“Like me?”
Bar
ney frowns for a moment as if I’ve confused him. But then his frown lifts a little and his eyes light up, and his shoulders start to shake up and down. He allows a thin whistle-like wheezing sound to escape from his chest, signaling that either his respiratory system has shut down completely or he’s laughing—I can’t tell which. For a precarious moment, I’m truly unsure whether I should smile at him or call for emergency help.
“On the contrary. You may be sensitive INSIDE, but what I see on the outside is a SOLDIER. You fell down on that stage that night and stood right back UP, better and more focused than before. You didn’t CRY, or forget your place, or ask to start again. ALL of which I HAVE seen. You think there’s a trick, something the successful people out there know that you don’t know. I understand the feeling, but I’m here to tell you there is NOT.”
Barney stretches his hands over his head, which causes his office chair to lurch back so far that I’m certain he’s going to flip backward and land on his head. But it stops at an impossible angle, almost parallel to the floor, and he somehow avoids tipping over.
“My DEAR. Did I ever tell you what my father, the great Broadway director Irving Sparks, always said?”
“Well, uh, yes, you have mentioned a few …”
“To his actors, I mean. Before each run-through? The best advice for actors I can think of.”
I try my best to lean forward from the sunken seat of my chair. My throat feels dry. My heart is beating fast. I don’t want to miss a word.
Barney looks into the distance with a dreamy expression from his almost prone position, and then turns to me and speaks so softly I have to strain even farther forward to hear him.
“He said: ‘Remember, kids. Faster, funnier, louder.’ ”
I’m trying my best to stay forward but the chair finally wins and sucks me back into its depths, the cushions deflating with a sigh. I’m sucked backward but I’m still gripping the arms of the chair tightly, waiting for him to continue, but he’s turned his face away now and seems lost in a happy memory.
“Wait, I’m sorry. That’s it? That’s the best advice he ever gave?”
He returns his chair with a lurch to its regular upright position and wheels himself back to his desk, clasping his hands again and returning his light blue gaze to me. “Yes, dear. That’s the advice. Why? You’ve heard that before?”
“Well, yes. I mean, of course. It’s a famous expression. Everyone’s heard that.”
“Have they, dear?” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “How wonderful!”
“But, I guess,” I begin, fumbling for the word. “I guess I always thought it was sort of a, a joke?”
Barney looks confused.
“I mean, not a joke exactly, but, well, it makes it all sound so simple, I guess. Too simple.”
He gives me a long look, then draws in a breath so deep it whistles. “FASTER—don’t talk down to the audience, take us for a spin, don’t spell everything out for us, we’re as smart as you—assume we can keep up; FUNNIER—entertain us, help us see how ridiculous and beautiful life can be, give us a reason to feel better about our flaws; LOUDER—deliver the story in the appropriate size, DON’T be indulgent or keep it to yourself, be generous—you’re there to reach US.” Barney takes a few gulps of air and beats his fist just once on his chest. “There you go, my dear. It might SOUND simple, but if I know you, you’ll spend your life dedicated to getting it right. And that’s it, my dear. THAT’S the whole banana.”
31
You have nine messages.
BEEEP
Yes, hello, this call is for Frances Bakes? Or, sorry, Frances Backs? I’m calling from the office of Dr. Leslie Miles, nutritionist. I have an appointment for you tomorrow, Thursday, at nine A.M. If we don’t hear back from you in the next hour, or if for any reason you have to reschedule, you’ll unfortunately be placed back on the wait list. The wait list is currently fifty-two months long. Thank you.
BEEEP
Hi, Franny, it’s Gina from the Brill Agency. Wondering if—do you have any problems with feminine hygiene? As a product, I mean. And also—can you ride a horse? They need someone who can ride a horse on the beach. Or on a mountain or something. Anyway, let me know!
BEEEP
Franny! It’s Katie. We’re all here (Hi, Franny!). Shush, you guys. You’re so awesome on the show! That laugh! We’re just at the first commercial break, but wow. Great job. This is so exciting!
BEEEP
Franny, it’s Casey. I’m watching you! And leaving you a message! At the same time! You’re so funny. And seriously, those jeans make you look tiny, are you like a twenty-seven now? Are you still doing that TastiLife thing?
BEEEP
Dude, it’s Deena. You stole the show. They’re fucking nuts if they don’t bring you back. The last time that show was this funny was the late eighties. Although I’m not sure how they can keep pretending Kathy is in her thirties. Also, I’m working on Law and Order next week. Can you believe it? Drinks on me.
BEEEP
Hello, hon, it’s your father. Mary and I watched the show tonight, at her apartment as requested, so that I was able to view you in this new invention they’ve come up with called color. Amazing how unnecessarily big these television screens are becoming. At any rate, I thought you seemed a very interesting character, although I wish they’d given you more lines, as you’re certainly deserving of some. Mary says I should also tell you that you looked very pretty, although I believe that goes without saying. At any rate, I’m—we’re both—very proud.
BEEEP
Hello, uh (clears throat), this is Dan, uh, from downstairs? I just wanted to say that as funny as you were on the show last night, that still doesn’t justify you hogging most of my beer. I’m calling to invite you to dinner, perhaps at the upstairs Chinese place whose actual name no one can ever remember, to discuss the script I’m writing, which may or may not have been inspired by you. This is a formal business invitation only, with no strings attached, unless you should find at some point in the future that I belong in any of the odd geometric shapes your feelings sometimes take. Okay, see you soon. When you get home. To our apartment. Our apartment. That sounds kind of nice, don’t you think?
BEEEP
Hello, Ms. Banks (labored breath), this is Barney Sparks, your AGENT. The ratings were much better than expected AND I got a lovely call this morning from an old friend of mine on the COAST who’s producing a half-hour pilot (coughs). He saw you last night and would like to put you on tape to audition for his show. It’s a series for a new CABLE channel and there’s NO money, BUT, if they like you they’ll fly you to Los ANGELES next week for a test. Are you available, dear? (cough, cough)
BEEEP
Franny. It’s me again. James. Please call me. I’m sorry.
BEEEP
I’m shivering, either from the air-conditioning in the hair-and-makeup trailer, which is blowing full blast on the back of my neck, or from nerves, or possibly both. I’ve been in Los Angeles for only a few hours, but I’ve already noticed there seem to be only two temperatures: too hot and too cold. There’s an empty ache in my stomach, and I know I should have eaten more on the plane from New York this morning than the coffee and half a bagel I managed to choke down, but every time I went to take another bite, my stomach would sort of flip and my heart would start to thump unevenly in an odd mix of excitement and dread.
I could hardly even enjoy being in first class, something I’d never experienced before. The seats were so roomy and comfortable that for the first hour I didn’t even notice the buttons by the armrest that make the back recline. It was perfectly comfortable the way it was. There was a bottle of lotion near the sink in the tiny bathroom and the headphones for the movie were free. But I kept thinking how much more fun it would be if I were traveling with Jane or Dan, pretending to be important executives, accepting a mimosa from the flight attendant’s outstretched tray or building our own sundaes from the ingredients on the dessert cart. I was simultaneously
too nervous and too sleepy to really appreciate the experience. Instead, I spent the first two hours of the flight studying my lines and the last three accidentally falling asleep, which I regret now that I’ve met the other two girls I’m auditioning with today: a lanky brunette with milky skin and bright blue eyes, and a gorgeous tall blonde with a pixie haircut and dimples that flash adorably whenever she smiles, which seems to be most of the time. They both live here in Los Angeles and have tested for things before, I gather from the chirpy snippets of their conversation I’m trying my best not to overhear.
“Have you lost, like, a ton of weight since we tested for Cubicles?” the brunette asks.
“I know, I like, totally got the ’rex somehow,” the blonde replies, rolling her eyes.
“Lucky,” the brunette says, narrowing her eyes in envy.
I duck my head down, focusing on the script I’ve already been over a hundred times. This is my job, I allow myself to think, and picturing it makes me smile. Positive thoughts.
Jeff and Jeff turned out to be the New York casting directors for Mr. Montague, the cable pilot about a decadent millionaire playboy. They had me do my scenes as Belinda the dog-walker over and over, laughing appreciatively every time.
“A little more of that ditzy voice, I think,” Jeff said encouragingly. “That feels like her.”
“Yeah, try it again all breathy like that,” the other Jeff agreed.
A few days later, the call came from Los Angeles, and the director flew out to meet a few of us, and I had to do the scenes all over again for him. “She’s our favorite,” tight-sweater Jeff whispered to him loudly over the back of his hand, giving me a wink. The second call came soon after—that of all the people they saw in New York, I was the only one they were flying to L.A. for a test.